Thirty feet: it would have to happen in the next few seconds. Thirty-five. His lungs ached, but he was determined to last at least another thirty seconds. He allowed his breath to begin escaping his lungs, slowly, so slowly; the simple act of exhalation helped him to hang on.
Forty feet. He could see nothing, sense nothing. It was cold and dark. Then he felt them. Tentacles.
At first Mark was frightened he had come upon the blinded creature, lurking below and entirely capable of ripping him to pieces, but he quickly realised these tentacles were not moving, not reaching for him. They swayed gently in the current, but they were lifeless. This was it. This chunk of the creature’s broken body was huge, and somehow he knew Steven lay trapped beneath it.
Twenty seconds more. He began to count: twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen
… He ran his hands through the forest of tentacles, trying not to focus on the pain when the evilly serrated claws sliced through his flesh. He found the ragged edge where the monster had broken apart in the explosion and gripping hard, Mark pulled with all his might.
Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. He started as the body shifted, then stretched out on the sandy lake bottom, reaching beneath the carcase for any sign of Steven. Nothing. He exhaled more bubbles, trying to fool his body into staying down for a few additional moments.
He tugged again, moving the corpse further away. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. He stretched as far as he could beneath the monster Finally! Mark’s fingers closed around a leather boot. He pulled, and felt something give. Four. Three. He shifted his weight and pulled again. Two. Finally, Steven’s body came free. One.
Mark kicked off the bottom, dragging Steven’s inanimate form behind him. Forty feet. That would take fifteen seconds, twelve if he were lucky. Steven had been under water far too long; Mark’s worry overcame his own need for air. At about twenty feet, his temple struck something hard, but as he raised an arm to brush it away he realised it was the staff. He shoved it towards the surface like a javelin, following as fast as he could. When he broke through the surface he was screaming, ‘Someone help me!’
THE MEADOW
Versen and Brexan were moving north along the coast. They had no waterskins, so they drank from every stream they passed. The jemma fish was finished, leaving nothing but the smell – they’d stuffed their pockets full of the cooked flesh and the fisherman’s generous gift had seen them through to the second day. They were happy to be alive and their spirits were high: they held hands while they walked, and chatted amiably. Brexan talked about Malakasia; she was pleased to dispel the myths that the entire nation was shrouded in ghostly fog, and that strange and horrible creatures wandered freely committing gruesome acts of dismemberment or murder.
‘Except around Welstar Palace,’ she added as a caveat. ‘No one goes there by choice – unless they’re stationed there, of course. And Prince Malagon’s generals are very selective about that: only the Home Guard, his own personal security force, are permitted in the palace, or even on palace grounds. I understand it’s very dangerous.’
‘Outstanding,’ Versen said sarcastically. ‘That’s where our group is heading.’
Brexan frowned. ‘You’ll never make it inside. You might not make it through the forest surrounding the keep. I was only there once, for a short time before we were deployed to Rona, but Ox, there must have been a hundred thousand soldiers massed around the palace.’
‘Why?’ He was dumbstruck. ‘What does he have to fear?’
‘Fear? Prince Malagon? Nothing.’
‘Then what’s he planning to conquer?’ Versen tugged at his whiskers. ‘You don’t have an army that size unless you’re about to defend or attack something. It’s too expensive to keep them all fed, and an idle army is a terrible thing.’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, ‘but it was a sea of warriors, stretching across the valley and blanketing the hillsides leading up to the palace.’
Walking through a grove of scrub cedar in bare feet, stinking of fish, nothing to eat other than a few bits of jemma stashed in his tunic pocket, Versen really didn’t feel up to the task of invading Malakasia and storming Welstar Palace. He sighed. ‘This may be hopeless. We’re a lifetime – ten lifetimes – away from being ready to battle that army.’ Suddenly tired, he sighed and said, ‘I don’t even have a pair of boots.’
Flashing a sexy grin, she pulled him towards a sandy patch of sunlit ground just off the narrow trail. ‘All the easier for me to get you out of your clothes,’ she laughed.
‘Incorrigible hussy,’ Versen cried with feigned disgust.
‘Trying to get me excited, Ox?’
Resisting for a moment, Versen asked, ‘What about O’Reilly?’
‘I haven’t heard from him all day, have you?’ She continued dragging him towards her chosen spot. ‘And if he is around, let him watch. He’s been dead for more than nine hundred Twinmoons, after all.’
Versen gave up trying to be sensible and grasped Brexan around the waist, pulling her to the ground. His tongue flicked over her full lips and she responded with a low growl as she slid her own tongue playfully into his mouth. As they sank into a tangle of arms and legs and sighing and moaning and deep breathing, a ghostly figure took position on the trail ahead. Gabriel O’Reilly was on sentry duty.
Had anyone observed the translucent figure standing vigil, they might have noticed that the spirit’s attention was focused on a small hillock behind a meadow that stretched outward from the cedar grove’s edge. The almor was waiting. The spirit could detect its putrid stench defiling the air, overlaying the crisp scents of autumn with the dank smell of death, rotting flesh and disease.
At least one Seron waited as well, but the wraith did not think twice about him. The lovers would have to deal with that one – he would be too occupied with the demon. Waiting patiently for the sun to come up, he reflected on what he could recall of his life. A lot had faded since his death, but he could still remember sensations, often more distinctly than events or people: the heat and humidity along the Warrenton Parkway at Bull Run, the pain of the rifle slug in his leg and the worry that it would have to be amputated; the excitement at beginning life again in Colorado. These memories wandered through his mind as he stood at his self-appointed post. He remembered what it had felt like to be loved; that was the recollection he wished to immerse himself in for the few moments he had before battling the demon. He could not now recall any specific scripture, but he had believed most faithfully that Jesus Christ would ensure that his soul ascended to heaven. But He had not.
Just after dawn, O’Reilly detected the almor moving closer and wafted over to where Brexan and Versen lay sleeping beside the trail.
‘You must wake up now,’ the wraith urged.
Versen stirred. ‘What? What is it?’ He sat up and pulled his wrinkled tunic on.
‘A Seron,’ O’Reilly said. ‘Be ready.’
‘Oh, demonpissing rutters,’ Versen spat, suddenly lucid, and shook Brexan hard. ‘Up, quick,’ he ordered, scanning the copse for anything he might use as a weapon. Brexan still had the knife she had managed to swipe before leaping into the ocean, but he had nothing. ‘No boots. I can’t believe I don’t even have a pair of boots,’ he muttered to himself as he picked up a short but sturdy length of cedar.
Versen turned back to Brexan, who, ever the soldier, stood silently beside their sandy bed, her tunic adjusted and trim, her hair pulled back neatly with a leather thong and her knife held loosely in one hand. ‘Ready?’ he asked.